A Dad Of His Own

The young Nick Purcell had been wild, rebellious, always on the cutting edge of trouble, with a doleful James Dean sex appeal that teenage girls had found irresistible. He’d been the subject of gossip, whispers, speculation, and had been rumored to enjoy a love life more active than a rock musician.

Every town had at least one bad boy. The central California farming community where Chessa grew up had more than its share, although Nick Purcell had been far and away the most notorious. It was in the blood, folks had said. Like father, like son.

Like father. Like son.

“Chessa?”

She spun around, faced him with terror in her heart. Her chest heaved as she struggled for air. She blinked rapidly. The image did not disappear.

He was there. He was real.

Extending a hand, Nick started to speak, then dropped his arm to his side with an anguished expression. His gaze flickered around the neat kitchen to settle on the plate of half-eaten pizza on the table. He smiled. “Sausage and mushroom,” he murmured. “It’s my favorite, too.”

Chessa found her voice. “Why are you here?”

The smile faded, tucked itself back into a face that was stronger than she remembered, but just as handsome. A square jaw. Perfect nose. Lips that were both virile and vulnerable, and dark eyes beneath a swath of brow that gave him a uniquely brooding appearance.

His sigh was nearly imperceptible, more sad than impatient. “I had to see him.”

She closed her eyes, clamped her lips together. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.

Pivoting around, she snatched a paring knife off the counter, grabbed an apple and carved frantically. “You had no right to come here.”

“He’s my son.”

Breath caught in her throat. She closed her eyes, bit her lip, then refilled her lungs and dug the paring knife into the pale fruit flesh to shape the bridge of the nose, the gouge of a mouth. “Bobby is my son, not yours.”

A moment of silence. When Nick spoke again, she realized he’d moved closer to her. “I don’t blame you for being angry. I should have been there for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

The knife hovered over the partially carved apple. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, regretted it instantly. The expression on his face was one of guilt and torment.

He covered his pain quickly, clasping his hands behind his back the way a powerful man does to display command of an uncomfortable situation. “I wish you’d been able to tell me about our child. Of course, I understand why you couldn’t.”

Caution deadened her voice into a dull monotone. “Precisely what is it that you understand, Mr. Purcell?”

Raising his chin a notch, he twisted his mouth in a type of a shrug. “Calculating back from the date of Bobby’s birth, I realize that I’d already left town before you could possibly have known you were pregnant.”

She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d punched her. “How do you know when Bobby was born?”

Apparently baffled by the question, he retrieved a folded sheet from his breast pocket, stepped forward to display it.

A moment before the room started to spin, Chessa recognized the copy of her son’s birth certificate. Without realizing that she still held the paring knife, she absently clasped her trembling hands, oblivious to the sting until Nick sprang forward.

“You’ve cut yourself.” Alarmed, he dropped the document, pried the paring knife from her hand, then snatched a tea towel from the counter and pressed it to the superficial wound. His touch was warm, firm, exquisitely gentle. “Do you have any bandages?”

“That isn’t necessary.” She pulled away, feeling strange. “I’d like you to leave now.”

A peculiar sadness shadowed his gaze. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can. You’re good at leaving.”

The snap in her voice jarred him. He stepped back, regarding her with unnerving intensity. “I understand how you feel.”

“No, you don’t.” She hated the frantic quaver in her voice, the high-pitched hysteria hovering at the back of her throat. “You can’t possibly understand. Please, please, I’m begging you, just go away and leave us alone.”

His eyelids fluttered shut, and she saw a scrape of white as his teeth grazed his lower lip. A shudder moved through him. When he opened his eyes, he regarded her with a peculiar hesitance. “Chessa, you have every right to be hurt, and to feel abandoned. I want to make that up to you.”

“You can’t.”

“I can try.” As she tried to turn away, he touched her arm, and the warmth radiated from his fingers like a small flame. “I want you to know that—” he paused for breath “—that you were always special to me.”

Chessa stiffened. “Excuse me?”

He licked his lips, tried for a smile that didn’t quite make it. “What we had together, what we shared was very special.”

All she could do was stare at him in utter awe. How gallant of him, she thought, to fake memories that didn’t exist about a relationship that never happened. Until five minutes ago, Chessa Margolis and Nick Purcell had never even met.

Chapter Two

During the few minutes it took for Chessa to retrieve an adhesive strip and bandage her hand, her mind was in chaos. There was no easy escape from the tangle of lies. Truth was the only option now, a truth that would deeply disappoint the son she adored. Postponing the inevitable would only intensify his disillusionment.

There was no choice, of course. Chessa knew that, and gathered her courage for what was to come. A deep breath, a silent prayer, and she faced the stranger in her kitchen. “We have to talk.”

Nick glanced up. “Isn’t it easier just to slice them?”

“Slice them?” She followed his gaze to the partially sculpted fruit draining on a paper towel. “Oh, the apples aren’t for pie. I sculpt them into novelty dolls as part of my craft business. Creations by Chessa.” To her horror, high-pitched laughter bubbled off a tongue quite clearly out of control. “It’s not a big business, of course. Just spare time. I make wreaths out of dried foliage, too. And holiday decorations, of course.”

“I see.” Clearly he didn’t see at all, although a distinctly amused glint lightened an otherwise dark gaze. “Are all of your apple faces as grumpy as this one?”

A glance at the sculpture in question revealed deep-set eyes beneath a slash of intense brow, a slightly imperfect nose above a mouth more detailed and exquisitely carnal than any she’d sculpted before. It was without doubt the scowling, apple-carved equivalent of Nick Purcell himself.

“Are you all right?”

Her head snapped around. “Of course.” She took a step back, her gaze darting to the window beyond which her excited son was telling every child in the neighborhood about his newly discovered father. A wave of nausea folded her forward.

“You’re ill.” Instantly concerned, Nick helped her to a chair, brought her a glass of water, then seated himself across the table from her.

She sipped the water, keeping her eyes closed until the sickness passed.

“Are you pregnant?”

Her eyelids snapped open. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry.” Having the grace to look embarrassed, he pushed away Bobby’s plate of half-eaten pizza and heaved a strained sigh. “It’s none of my business—”

“You’re right, it’s none of your business, I am none of your business, and my son is none of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Although his voice was mild, a bolt of danger erupted, displayed by the subtle clench of his jaw, the warning twitch of his mouth. “Bobby is also my son. That makes him my business.” A flash of anger, a striking image of defiance and danger that, for a fleeting moment, echoed the passion of his youth.